​​​​13 A Sacrifice to the Grim

HIGHEST MYRAL AZARM hid her bruises within the heavy blood-red and black robes. She stood on the edge of the scene. An observer. She had warned the woman what would happen, had advocated cooperation. The knife wounds on her right forearm stung, but they were shallow. Careless, letting her get close. Weakness was a sin or so the Faith taught.

Seth Marak dragged the squealing woman through the red dirt by a foot. He ignored the remaining citizens of Hatava, for now. They didn’t scream as they fled amid barking slat-ribbed dogs and bleating goats, grabbing little ones. Zorast loyalists would round them up before they got far. Such willing souls existed in every city, frothing at the mouth to join the Faith’s ranks should a single priest or priestess cross their path.

It was survival, she supposed, but it disgusted her nonetheless. Are you any better? she thought. You slit the throats of the innocent and you allow him his pleasures at night, though you are a highest. She’d had little choice. If he exposed her, there would be no end to her suffering. He raped and choked her, but each night she escaped his attentions, her mind finding refuge. It was when she returned to her body that the pain began. Seth never seemed to notice her absence, or care.

With effort, she forced away such dark thoughts. She could hear the thumping feet of the loyalists moving in. These had formed a militia to supplement the Necros, serving the temple for ample gold and the unspoken promise they might live. Such fools deserved what they got. Still, the temple needed an army of sorts. Its priests and priestesses couldn’t fight a war alone, though she believed Seth might try. The Necros were good against mobs or assassins, but they were too few and shadows of their former selves.

One child stood staring, wide-eyed. Myral noticed Seth looking at him, and she gestured for the boy to come to her. She offered the warmest smile she could muster, and a few dried dates secreted within her cloak. He would not be the first she’d saved from Seth’s attentions, nor the last.

After a moment’s hesitation, the young one complied. Myral enfolded the boy in a hug. He continued staring at the priest as he bit into a date, but the man had lost interest. She couldn’t save them all, but one boy was something, wasn’t it? She’d seen what remained of such trophies when Seth’s followers removed the bodies.

Seth, a pale-skinned Ewsannec native, was bald, muscular, and covered in livid scars. Self-mutilation wasn’t for everyone, but some priests took their vows to the extreme. Myral had seen worse. She let the boy go, urging him to run while Seth remained distracted.

A man hefted the child off his feet, before he’d gone ten paces. Terror etched the father’s face. They both cried out as several loyalists grabbed and separated them. The man fought with fury, which ended with a spear through the gut. As they dragged the boy away, for training in the militia, Myral felt tears dampen her cheeks. Three out of five trainees died. Zorasts accepted only the strong. Her efforts had failed. Like everything else she put her hand to.

Seth glanced at her with a knowing smile, which said he knew what she’d tried to do. Such was the disorder which greeted the Faith. His smile said she should have known better. He would take the time to remind her later.

Rumour suggested some towns and cities were evacuating their populace, heading north, believing they would be safer. Myral wondered if any would make it. Zorast spies would do their utmost to prevent it.

‘Please,’ the woman begged. She looked up at Myral. Her face was dirt smeared, wet and bloody. ‘I’ll do whatever you want. Don’t do this, don’t ...’

Seth didn’t seem to hear.

The woman clawed at the sun-scorched soil. Myral had warned her. Why did no one listen when she warned them? He forced the woman onto her stomach. He placed a worn moccasin between her shoulder blades. If they listened, they would understand. He forced her head down, forehead scraping against the ochre soil. If they understood and obeyed, they lived. Seth drove the slender blade up through the base of her skull.

Quick and quiet was the way he liked to kill women. A priest of the zorast obeyed canon law. Torturing or killing for pleasure was forbidden. It was all a lie, of course. Every priest and priestess knew it, but then, canon law permitted lying. Belief was nothing if not complicated.

It was rumoured Seth had endured years of torture within Icarthian dungeons for heinous crimes. Others said he had infiltrated the Aidari before slaughtering them all. Another rumour suggested he had survived his own execution. He’d suffered delicious torture, to prepare him for the war, to prepare his soul for their master, the Grim and Reaper of souls, and for his chosen servant, the Fetch.

‘Bring him here,’ the bald priest commanded the others. Too many zorasts looked to him instead of the highests, believing him the Grim’s own flesh. At times, the man seemed to believe he was the Grim reborn.

The loyalists hauled another prisoner from the brick hut. Seth, with the point of a knife, drew a design in the dirt. They dropped the man in the centre of the inverted pentagram. Red earth marred his smooth Hatavan black skin. It matted his hair. They’d stripped him of all clothing. People wore clothes. This abomination wasn’t a person.

Myral stared at the prisoner, knowing it was too late. She knew who and what he was. The woman had confessed before trying to stab her. The confession had shocked Myral to the core. Seth, however, had taken it in his stride as though expecting nothing less. The Faith had sought to discover one like this for decades. It had always failed, until now. Myral had never believed, and fear clutched her heart. Killing humans was terrible, evil, and Myral’s hands had their fair share of blood. What did one call it, though, when murdering an Angelborn?

‘What is your name?’ Seth asked, his voice cold, and when the man spat, he straddled the prisoner. The muscular zorast grabbed the captive’s forehead and chin. He pulled the victim’s head back, stretching the neck. Veins and tendons bulged. ‘You were asked a question,’ he hissed in the captive’s ear. ‘A quick death if you answer.’

‘Torture is forbidden,’ Myral said, immediately regretting it. The other priest stood at her side – she didn’t know his name and didn’t care - shifted uneasily. He was new to the Faith and newly raised.

The bald and scarred priest let go of his captive, not looking in Myral’s direction. She would pay for the interruption. Choking, the prisoner struggled to get to his knees, but didn’t raise his head.

‘I don’t ask because your name matters,’ said Seth stepping around his victim. ‘It is a courtesy. I like to know the names of those I kill. It is a long list in my head, but I remember each one. The Grim demands blood and I provide. Sacrifice makes us stronger.’ The Ewsannec native sighed. ‘I will simply give you a name. I promise, I will remember you. Especially you.’

The Book of Chains guided the Faith. Within the faded scraps of hide was mention of a Red Prince who would rise to devour the faithful and the faithless. Myral stared at Seth’s back, wondering if this wasn’t the Red Prince before her. She checked her thoughts, chiding herself. The Faith was built on lies, wasn’t it?

The wind rose. Iron-grey clouds gathered with unnatural speed. The other nameless priest moved to strike their prisoner. Seth held up a hand to forestall him. ‘It’s nothing more than a tantrum. This one is young, all of eighteen years. He doesn’t know what it is he does. The angelic spirit within him slumbers, but I am here to awaken it.’

Myral wondered how the lad’s mother had known. She must have seen something, a sign. It was common knowledge angels had taken flesh and walked this world, but seeing one took her breath. And the poor lad doesn’t know what he is. She’d heard rumours Angelborn experienced an Awakening event, but up until that point remained oblivious. Some suggested it occurred at thirty-three years, others at eighteen or twenty-five.

‘I know who you are,’ the young man said, looking up for the first time.

Seth lowered himself, relaxing on his haunches. He looked his captive in the eyes. ‘What did you hear?’

‘You slaughter villages, whole towns, cities. You roast young ones on spits. You sacrifice mothers to appease your god. Your black-hearted hoary Grim sent you to devour this world. You will get no satisfaction from me, Grim-sworn.’

Seth looked disappointed. ‘Do people not understand what is happening? Do they not realise a war is coming? No, for how could they? You don’t know what you are, but it doesn’t matter. We hunt down your kind either way. Once again, I will offer you a courtesy. A display of my kindness. I will let you see the truth.’

Seth gestured, and three loyalists who had stood apart joined him. At his command, they set aside shields and weapons. They stood behind the captive and forced him facedown into the dirt. They forced his arms wide. Several miles distant and to the north, a sandstorm brewed. It was a red wall of death, broiling clouds above it. Lightning shattered the sky.

The turn in the weather was proof. Latent powers, but they were there, as the angelic spirit Awakened. Not quickly enough. She knew what he was doing. Killing the Angelborn while he was unaware would seem like cheating. He wanted the angelic soul to acknowledge him, to acknowledge his power over it, as he destroyed it.

The arrogance.

The priest stepped around the captive, unwrapping a hide bundle, withdrawing a strange ceremonial dagger. A blade revered by the zorasts. It was supposed to be on an altar in Valtar. What was he doing with it? Canon law prevented its removal by anyone.

‘Let me show you what you are,’ he said, weapon in hand. The others held the prisoner as he dug the point into the man’s upper back. Myral stepped closer upon seeing a tendril of golden light emerge with the blood. The light enveloped blade, hilt, and Seth’s hand. The body bucked as the Hatavan howled.

Seth kept digging. ‘Let me reveal to you, your true self. Suffering and despair, these things reveal truth. This is what He teaches us. I learned this in darkness and pain. I offer you the knowledge of why you must die. Death is a blessing. You do not appreciate this. No one ever does. I offer you this blessing, this kindness.’

Withdrawing the knife, a coil of light entwined with it, he stabbed again. ‘Fanatics, they call us,’ he shouted over the man’s screams and rising wind. ‘Murderers, they name us. Filth, they curse us.’

Another sand storm approached from the south, devouring red dunes as it raced towards the city. When the storms met, they would crush all between. The Angelborn’s power was awe-inspiring, and this one wasn’t aware yet. On seeing the look on the man’s face as his head reared in agony, she revised that last.

Something was in those eyes, ancient and powerful. Myral stepped closer, terrified, disgusted, and sorrowful. She wanted to reach out, to touch him, to ease his suffering. This should not be. The urge to flee also took her. Not to run with her legs of flesh and bone, but to set her mind free, but she couldn’t. She had to see this through.

Moving away, Seth motioned for the others to do likewise. The protrusions grew from the captive’s savaged shoulders. The priest reached for the leather sheath on his back, and he drew a longer blade. It was a scaled down version of the Nephilim scarap. The axe-like sword blade had four tapering points. The steel of giants was unequalled, though the giants hoarded their secrets. The zorasts had stolen the knowledge long ago.

The Angelborn shoved himself into a kneeling position. His cries turned from sobs to a roar of rage as mortal and angelic soul united. The wings grew in a spurt, twin black tentacles. The unexpected force arched the man’s back. Bones cracked and he screamed. The wings unravelled, exposing black wet feathers dripping blood. The Angelborn cried out in pain. On his face was a profusion of emotions, but pervading it all was knowledge. Knowledge of what he was, and of what was about to happen.

‘The end is here,’ Seth screamed over the wind, ‘and the Cleansing is begun.’ He stood side-on with the captive. He struck with the jagged weapon. It took three hacking blows to sever the right wing. It fell heavily, twitching in a bloody spray, folding in on itself like a thing alive. Dark blood sprayed from the man’s shoulder. He tottered to one side collapsing. Blood clogged the feathers of his remaining one, congealing. The Angelborn stared up at him; confusion, anger, and pain registered in one tortured mask.

Both storms were closer but faltering. Two walls of wind and whipping sand descended to smother the buildings. Seth stood watching it, blade points dripping into a thickening puddle. He turned and nodded. The others grabbed the prisoner, forced one last time to his knees. They secured his hands behind his back, bent his head. The lone bloodied wing beat at them, knocking one aside with a broken arm for his trouble.

Seth dropped the scarap, and gripped the ceremonial blade. A weapon designed to trap the souls of angels. He raised it and stabbed into the man’s skull with an eruption of blood, brain, and light.

The storms died.

‡

WHEN MYRAL TURNED AWAY, she caught sight of a winged figure within the city. Dusk crept across the wasteland. The shadows of red-bricked houses had grown, the narrow streets dark. Barking dogs quieted but for the odd whine. It had been momentary, but she was certain.

Another one, and he or she had Awakened. Blackening storm clouds billowed above. A funnel of wind formed, lowering. It touched houses, which exploded in outbursts of debris. It was like a bent finger scraping the earth. It followed a line straight towards Seth. This one had its emotions in check. It was mature, well trained. We may not survive this, she realised, and the concept didn’t displease her. There was another notion within the Book of Chains. One of justice. It was one of the few tenets she held to.

The Ewsannec native had spotted the funnel. He stepped forward to stare at it, brazen and unafraid. His loyalists gathered to him, awaiting instruction, all looking towards the city.

Myral couldn’t believe a chance had presented itself. She gave the prearranged signal.

Her fellow priests and priestesses emerged from the shadows of nearby buildings behind her. She had selected those she could trust, at least as far as this plan was concerned. She held no illusions of true loyalty. They attacked Seth and his loyalists from behind.

While several dealt with the militia, two grabbed his arms. However, Seth was fast, and he cut them down. Two others grabbed him, this time preventing him from raising the scarap. One crushed Seth’s wrist to release the weapon. Despite this, the bald priest managed to kill those two as well, but during the struggle with yet another, an assassin wrapped a knotted cord around Seth’s neck. The bloodied assassin twisted around so they were back-to-back, and pulled the cord ends over his shoulders. Seth’s feet lifted from the ground, as the killer bent, taking the weight. Seth’s hands clawed at his neck. They could find no gap between cord and flesh.

After a time, he ceased struggling, but the killer held for another half minute. The priest’s lifeless body toppled to the side. The assassin, the priest whose name Myral didn’t know, glanced at her once, nodded and left. Myral realised she was in shock. She had not expected success. She stood looking down at the Angelborn’s corpse, feeling empty. When she looked up, the funnel of wind had changed direction, dissipating. Cries rose in the distance.

‘A sacrifice to the Grim,’ she announced to the others, knowing what they would want to hear. ‘Blasphemy must be punished. The end is coming and our victory is near. We cannot allow anyone to jeopardise it.’ There had never been a chance to save the Angelborn. Those who had aided her had done so out of a shared hatred of Seth, but they were still zorasts. The Sword of the Faith would no doubt be next.

An Hatavan loyalist in leather armour approached, pointedly ignoring the bodies. A priestess named Shiva stepped forward to intercept him. ‘Well, what is it?’

‘I am highest here, Shiva,’ said Myral, but the other woman snorted.

The man bowed low, almost prostrate before them, obviously worried over whom he should address. Playing it safe, he spoke to a spot between them. ‘There is another within Hatava. We are converging on his position. A dozen of our men are dead, but we shall prevail.’

‘Never mind that,’ Shiva snapped. ‘How many?’

‘One hundred and sixty-three is the tally.’

Shiva whirled, her face flush with rage, and stabbed a finger at Myral. ‘I warned you we had no time for distractions. This plot of yours has taken up too much valuable time.’

‘It was not just my plot, Shiva, and you know it. You raised no objections when I approached you with this.’

‘She is right,’ said another priest, named Erik. ‘We did agree to her plan and we carried it out. No point complaining about it now.’

‘Where are the rest of them?’ asked a priest named Krugal. ‘There should be over ten thousand in this city.’

‘Slavers, from Tharonis,’ answered the messenger, who was shivering despite the heat. ‘They took everyone worth selling who didn’t escape. They are marching them across the desert.’

Shiva spat at Myral’s feet. ‘The Cleansing must begin and we have fewer than five thousand for the required offering. This is your fault. The Grim will not thank us for this failure.’

‘We could hunt them down,’ suggested Erik, ‘and take the Tharoni as well.’

‘No,’ said Krugal. ‘There is no time, and we would be too exposed. The Tharoni will be well-armed. They will not give up their profits without a fight.’

‘You know as well as I do, Shiva,’ Myral said, keeping the fury from her voice, lest she lose control, ‘Seth needed to be dealt with. He had us all marked for death. He was too powerful and too wily to take unawares. The discovery of an Angelborn was a huge distraction we couldn’t pass up.’

‘Hah,’ Shiva scoffed. ‘He had you marked for something more interesting, I believe. Isn’t that right, highest? Don’t tell us you didn’t enjoy your charade. A woman has needs after all.’

‘You tread dangerous ground,’ said Myral through gritted teeth.

‘There is no point arguing this, now,’ said Krugal. ‘We have others of the Faith in other cities. The Cleansing cannot be delayed, and so we must increase our efforts. If we fail to reach the proscribed quota, the Grim’s servant may well take us in compensation.’

‘Wise words,’ said Shiva with a glare for Myral. The Grim, some suggested, loved to see his followers at each other’s throats. The strongest, the most vicious, survived. She believed it. Shiva had believed herself next in line as a highest. Myral being named Sword was too much for the woman. With Seth out of the way, a knife was at Myral’s back. Perhaps another death would prove necessary. She rubbed her forehead, feeling pain radiate through her skull. When would the killing end?

‘Will you go to Ancyra, highest?’ asked Krugal, at least showing some respect. ‘We must take the people there before the slavers do. Your presence would be a rallying call to the faithful there. Myself and the others will go south and gather everyone from every city. We will regroup in Shamar. We shall meet the quota.’

Rumour suggested the Grim’s servant appeared to take the captives, and Myral wondered if she would see him. She hoped not. ‘What about the Gulley? How can you cross with so many soldiers guarding it?’

‘Silver has passed hands and more was promised,’ said Erik. ‘The gate will open for anyone of the Faith.’

The zorasts parted ways, and Myral prepared her sydarag for the trip to the northwest. She tightened the saddle straps and loaded the beast with extra bladders taken from the dead men’s mounts. With a last look at a young man’s body, she kicked her mount into motion. Its extended striped neck and tail were horizontal as it lunged into a trot on two legs.

One way or another, she needed to thwart the Cleansing by preventing the release of those vampires. There had been difficult times in Myral’s life. The last fifteen years as a zorast priestess had to count among the worst. Something in her gut told her, those years were as nothing to what was coming.